No frills; we must tend
to the squandered beef on I-94.
Its recent turn to uselessness
in the eye of the discerning omnivore
stands in line behind a factory’s
striking rendition of a human,
chimney stacks puffing away.
No more bandying Comanche warriors
duking it out for second-class status;
Uncle Sam saw to their dissolution
while whispering “you just be good, now.”
Every part of the steer in use
would be the ideal situation here,
though idealism took a flying leap
off George Washington’s nose
when the stone masons weren’t looking.
There’s a piece of gentle wood
on that tray, name of Rockefellon:
Nomad Juggler Extraordinaire.
He currently traverses
the water chestnut fields
of Animosity Central,
the ironically-titled
decentralized milieu
for spatially-challenged
graduates of spoken word school.
Delirium be me middle name, aye.
Ye may also call me the grossest,
most indefatigable shroom tripper,
spawned from the native
egalitarian egret something or other
in combination with a spokesperson
for our most advanced bleach formula,
now carcinogen-free!*
*New carcinogens are being discovered every day, and we cannot guarantee your safety beyond the scientific accomplishments hitherto hailed as gospel among most legitimate collectives of scientists. Please keep this information in mind when shopping around for your next purchase of laundry detergent, particularly when using cash, debit or any other payment method that typically doesn’t involve built-in spending incentive programs.
“Turn strange, fair beefeater,”
Curtisson mentioned on the car ride
over to the museum. “Your
toner-rich inconceivability
leaves behind the tragic old
misconception of the garlic-laden
bindling-gebaut, untold though
not unmade or unmasked, undeveloped,
penning the pennies through the portrait
of a golem in trouble with the law.”
Is that man’s law or God’s law?
I prefer to think of it as God slaw:
nice and crunchy with a musical quality
once it’s making its way back to the soil.
“We only have sevenscore paper clips
left in the entire warehouse; I said
we shouldn’t panic, but I was putting on
my brave face, hoping things would
turn themselves around. But they’ve just
turned strange, fair beefeater, and
we’d better figure out our whole
monument situation, pronto.”
Here’s the first of a series of revisited poems that are read without commentary, very minimally. I found difficulty with the podcast format, confining myself to just the extended recording. But then I realized that people enjoy variety, and I enjoy working on a variety of styles on a regular basis, never restricting myself to a single project or ideal. Sometimes that kind of behavior can be shackling–it can lead to treading water in numerous areas instead of swimming in a handful.
Eh, live and learn.
So that’s what brings us to today! Quick (Tasty) Morsels is designed for your jet-setting citizen of the 21st Century, snack-sized recordings that are sure to raise just as many questions as they answer.
Cheers and enjoy!
None of a Your Beeswax, Sonny
A Winston box
ain’t none of a your beeswax, sonny,
we’re full up here.
Scram, you dig?
I mean, turpentine torpedo stitching
needn’t apply for a permit
before March 1st, or when
the next available March Hare
comes in for an appointment.
Notice the lo-fi-ness? Yeah, it was an accident at first, but now I really like the idea of fuzzy recordings for the archives. Makes it feel older, yanno? It’s also reminiscent of Tom Waits’ lo-fi recordings of him telling stories.
So ya, here are the pieces I read for this recording:
Subconscious to the Rescue
Pile the sandbags and twirl the belts,
we’re not gonna lose our dishes to the wind
if I have anything to say about it!
Pile it all up, all that crap you never expected
you’d need to keep the mental tempest at bay.
No use questioning it at this point,
your brain sent out the SOS two days ago,
and I sincerely apologize for arriving so late.
You’d never believe the cross-country traffic.
***
Hit the Road
With fists would be too bloody,
so we picked the feet instead.
Stomping full speed ahead
with soles at our disposal,
we fully intended to swing
by the 24-hour bakery for
some half-price doughnuts
and a snifter of cider
on the house (if Freddy
decided to be kind to us).
Our plans changed, and
we began flipping pancakes
until we could find
a tangible solution.
It struck me like butter
and I scraped my elbow
on the doorway as I
hurried outside to yell
“America knows the truth
about agribusiness
and systemic starvation
of impoverished nations,
just ask the government!”
A sniper’s round whizzed
past my ear and I took
no time getting out of there,
though I lost my clothes
while going so fast,
an issue that pops up
more often than you think it should.
***
Bigfoot Carbon
It’s like I’m trying to crack
some Russian terrorist organization’s database
before the rubber ducky
explodes all over the train tracks
during the afternoon commute
away from the lovely metropolis
that affords so many people
the luxury of living 30 miles away
and commuting every day
to earn their big fat paychecks
while leaving bigfoot carbon prints
if they choose not to commute by rail.
But they can do whatever they want,
because having substantial sums of money
makes a person immune from criticism
and the need to change lifestyle.
WHARVED 